They passed confusedly through his mind.  It was difficult to arrange them in the order of their succession.  He began to be uncertain whether his visit to Holden was made before or after the drowning of Sill.  He tried to recollect the purpose of his visit to the Solitary, but could fix upon nothing definite.  He seemed to remember that he had made a confession of some sort, and that Holden had charged him with the murder of his brother; and, at the same time, commended him for removing George from the evil to come.  His thoughts then reverted to the upsetting of the boat.  He knew that Sill had saved his life; but why, when in safety on the boat, had he left it?  He had a notion of some conversation between them, and strove, till his brain burned, to remember it.  Had he not urged the unfortunate man to swim ashore?  Was it not most probable he had done so?  Was not that most consistent with his usual treatment of others?  Was not that the means adopted by the stern angel of fate, to accomplish the decree?

Such was the nature of the thoughts of the unhappy Armstrong.  Do what he might, he could not exclude them.  They would give place to no others.  They were at home.  They had a right to rule and to torture.  They were a foretaste of a never-ending punishment.  His will did not consent; but, a mightier will commanded, and the weaker must obey.  The sport of an irresistible necessity—­with no power of choice—­the blind, unwilling instrument of a controlling force, he was, notwithstanding, justly chargeable with every misfortune, and, like a malefactor, must endure the consequences.

Long he sat thus absorbed in these wretched reflections.  He stared upon the water, but saw nothing:  the tide rose and wet his feet, but he felt it not; the wind blew chill, but he was not cold.  He got up at last from his seat, and was recalled to life.  He felt stiff from having been in one posture so long.  He took out his watch, and found it was twelve o’clock.  He looked at the sun, and perceived it did not contradict the watch, and turned his steps homeward.

The crow from the topmost bough of a withered tree eyed him as he passed along quite near, and croaked once, but did not leave his perch.  Armstrong heard him not.  Nor did he heed the blue-bird singing in the noonday sun to the arbutus blossoms crushed by his unwitting feet, or notice the petulant squirrel flinging down the shells of his nuts, as if in mockery at the passing stranger.  He was met by Primus in the village street, who took off his cap, but to the salutation of the negro he paid no regard.  The General stopped as he passed, and turned round, with a sorrowful surprise, to look after him, and shook his head.  It was the first time Mr. Armstrong had passed him without notice and a kind word.  The negroes are very superstitious, and great observers of signs.  He remarked that Mr. Armstrong’s hat was pulled over his eyes, in the same manner he wore it at the funeral of his wife, and augured some impending calamity.